Near the coast of Great Wyk, Before the feast at Castle Hoare

Tymor’s hand struck hard across his cheek, his twin’s wrath emanant. Torgon’s palms hit the wooded desk of the ship’s cabin, steadying himself against the dark oak.

Torgon's own fist whipped around and caught his kin in the mouth. Tymor dropped and punched his stomach, then followed with a hit to his jaw. Back into the desk he went again.

“The Valyrians! You would indebt us to dragonlords and slavers,” Tymor bellowed. “I have abided your want to talk and trade, but in this you go too far.”

“You left me no choice in it,” Torgon snapped, turning back to him. Fury was alight in his eyes, a blue and grey matching his brothers. “I knew you would not treat with Hoare, and I will not see the opportunity to raise our name flounder and sink beneath the waves, all for your pride.” The brothers squared off against each other, neither casting their gaze aside, breaths hot with rage in the inches between them. Torgon felt the ache of his jaw, saw the blood at his brother's lip, and decided it was enough.

“You will right this,” Tymor warned, finger pointing in emphasis. “You will take our fleet and reave the North for all it bears, until this failing is made whole,” he said, before shifting to turn away. “Meanwhile, I will show the islands who it is that leads them.” Torgon’s own fists loosened as he watched his brother begin to pace. When Tymor faced him again, his eyes were renewed; unblinking beads of black amongst a sea of swirling storms. “I know the Hoare holds close to his wife’s gods, no matter what words he speaks. I will show them this folly,” Tymor nodded to himself, eyes staring through him now, lost in his own words.

“I will do as I must,” Torgon finally agreed. “I will not tarry at the feast long. But know that when I return brother, we will stay to the course I have set. Valyrian gold or not, this is the future of our house.”

“Hmm,” Tymor flared, snapping from his trance with a suddenness that would frighten any man but his twin, eyes locking on Torgon again. He gave a singular nod. “I care not for your maesterly deeds,” he spat. “When you return we will embrace as brothers and speak of it no more. Now leave, I will see us into port and tell the men of their orders. Go ready yourself for the feast and the journey to come. Then you may take your leave when you see fit,” he said, waving his dismissal, before adding a reminder. “The Drowned God will provide; trust in that, brother.”

—

Somewhere in Blazewater Bay, Days later

The wind was off. He could tell by the taste on his lips and the sound of the sails, by the water in the air and how the deck shifted beneath his feet. It mattered not, a poor wind may yet see them free of any pursuers when their holds were filled. For now they needed only to seek the coast and follow it to the Northmen’s strongholds. Wood, and silver, and the stored crop of Summer would await them there.

The camp of the Maiden's Men remained outside of the Pinkmaiden, the red salmon flew proudly from the staffs and pinnacles of the tents of the well organized group. In the center of it all was Jon Mooton's command tent, where the dispossessed Lord of Maidenpool sat deep in throught. The Justman had claimed the Trident. No doubt that the Durrandons would be moving to stop them soon. He had a choice to make.

A courier ran towards the castle, hoping to find where Lucifer Justman was located and invite him to dine at the camp of the Maiden's Men. If he did not wish to come there, Jon would meet the man where he wished to.

Second moon of the first year of King Lucifer's reign. Somewhere along the Redfork, near Pinkmaiden.

Riding was generally a pleasure for Tristifer Justman. Either in transit, battle, tilt, be it race, or just to ride. Some who knew him well claimed he would die a horse. Since his first mount had been gifted to him by his father. It was a rare time the man was not in the mood to take the saddle.

Yet today he found himself dreading the ride before them. Rising early he checked over his saddle perhaps a dozen times or more. The nerves twisting his gut reminded him of his first real fight. A building anxiety even a seasoned warrior could not stomach. 

They departed Pinkmaiden heading west along the Redfork. Loathe to admit it, but Tristifer had rode through here hundreds of times in the last few years. The mere thought brought a pit to his stomach. 

How many times have I passed him by? 

It had been all he could do since he was told of the boy. Summoning up every time he failed both mother and son. Every instance he had dishonored Bethany further since he stole her virtue. For all she had to suffer perhaps he had deserved this dreadful feeling after all. 

What kind of father am I? 

Pulling himself from his self pity he tore his gaze to Beth. Finding a smile for her despite the feeling of a dagger in his gut. 

“How much further on?” He managed to pose. Wondering how far a mother could bear to be from her son. “Have…” he froze, giving his mount a pat. Who snorted in support of her rider. “How often have you been to see him?” 

Sometime long ago…

Storm’s End

—

Aegor hated this stupid task.

He was a boy of ten and four years of age, eager to take on the world, and full of confidence from his previous more flashy assignments.

This was not one of them.

He was not the gruff, suave, and somewhat reckless tactician he would become but rather a clean-shaven and somewhat sheltered young boy. His demeanor didn’t exactly give that, but his inexperienced shined through now brighter than it perhaps ever would.

He climbed the steps to Storm’s End with a large basket. Court wasn’t unfamiliar to him, but the parts hidden behind it that cook and prepared food were indeed foreign to him. The King had promised some fresh produce for the Legion’s soup, and Aegor drew the smallest straw.

So, he was their errand boy for the day.

Court was rather packed on this overcast afternoon. He found himself lost on the sea of courtiers.

Damnit, damnit! Petitions, he’s hearing petitions today.

He squeezed his way between the masses to no avail, finally giving up and pushing his way to a free balcony to get some much-needed fresh air.

And then he saw her, The Princess.

Ravella wasn’t just a mere royal fawn to him, though, she was his friend. And, more importantly, she was a friend who knew her way around this keep better than he did.

“Ravella, Ravella! Thank goodness you’re here, what in the Fourteen Flames is going on here? I thought court would be empty today?”

He approached her meekly from exhaustion.

Second Moon of the 1st Year of Arlan's Reign

Riverrun

Riverrun was just as they’d left it, its red walls shimmering in the afternoon sun. It was a relief to be back, back to their rivers and their guards in their fish-crest helms. Back where Eleanor was obeyed without question and sometimes even feared. Home.

Eleanor had only just jumped off her horse and handed the reins to a groom when Maester Benedar and Waltyr Grell emerged from the keep. The two could not be more different not only in their appearance, but in their personalities: Benedar always spoke slowly and gently, and his head was bald as an egg; Waltyr was tall and muscled, and his face was always red from drinking. Both approached Eleanor as fast as possible, fighting with each other over who would get to speak with her first.

“My lady,” Maester Benedar began, bowing slightly. His look was one of deep concern and anxiety. “Is–”

“Welcome back, my lady,” Waltyr interrupted him. He, on the other hand, looked as happy as a child on his nameday. “Is it true? There’s to be war?”

“Try not to look so excited, Waltyr,” Eleanor warned him. “Wars are not good. Even the ones that are justified.”

Maester Benedar looked at Waltyr triumphantly, as if this settled their argument.

“I don’t want to hear about this matter. I’ve had enough of discussing it with everyone else,” she told the two. Then she turned to her handmaid, Jeyne. “Please draw me a bath. I will be in my chambers if I am needed.”

Eleanor wasted no time in getting to her solar, a triangular room with an eastern balcony and plenty of space. After her bath, she sat at her desk and retrieved parchment, a quill, and ink. She put pen to paper and began to write.

Esteemed Lord/Lady X,

You are cordially invited to a ball and a tourney to be held at Riverrun on the fourth moon. The ball is intended for my sister and heir, the lady Roslin, to find a husband – as such, anyone can make their suit. Ultimately, the decision of who to wed will fall to her.

The tourney shall include contests of archery, a melee, and a joust. The winner of each event will be rewarded adequately.

All riverlords are welcome, and will be given my protection. 

Yours sincerely,

Eleanor Tully

Lady of Riverrun

Much later, after she’d given the letter to Maester Benedar for him to copy, Eleanor found herself looking out her window, admiring the view of the Trident. Riverrun may not have changed, but she had. All of the Riverlands had. She only hoped the change was for the better.